


A Picture's Worth A Thousand Words

by crewdlydrawn



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dick Pics, Hand Jobs, League of Shadows setting, M/M, Multiple Pairings, Multiple Partners, Open Relationships, Polyamory, Pre-Canon, Sexting, Travel, Unmasked Bane, accidental dick pic, let's embarass Barsad because that's FUN, texts as plot devices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-20 01:45:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11326095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crewdlydrawn/pseuds/crewdlydrawn
Summary: Sending illicit photos to a lover can be troublesome enough on its own, but accidentally sending that photo to your BOSS?  Terrifying.Inspired bythis tweetscreencap, and entirely the fault ofobsessivedebaucheryandleagueofshadowsconfessionson tumblr.





	1. Chapter 1

Plenty of things in life could be undone, once done.  A knot, for example, or a zipper, even a step or movement, in the right context.  There could be some manner of solace to be had in certain actions and changes that were reversible. 

What could never be undone, however, and potentially carried life-altering consequences, were electronic messages that had already been sent—especially those sent to the wrong person.

"Dating" wasn't exactly an option for persons in Barsad's position.  Reality changed when one devoted their life to something larger than themselves, and the ways in which two or more people sought comfort, relaxation, entertainment, and affection from each other differed greatly from the average human sitting in a dark room watching a movie, or in a restaurant making awkwardly idle conversation over a bland meal.  Relationships were necessary, taught and expected, and in some cases demanded—but there were a distinct breed, a brethren, a coexistence built on trust and shared beliefs, shared goals, shared devotion to the ideal. 

Barsad had not been on "a date" since he was fourteen, meeting a schoolmate for a secret kiss, an all too short time before he found himself in his country's military. 

Fourteen was a lifetime ago.

In his youth, Barsad had not imagined his work and travels would lead him to a place of importance, yet when the League of Shadows had found him, destitute and discharged far from home, the decision to follow had been easy.  Only a handful of young men had begun their journey at the same time as he, and a mere two along with himself completed their initial tests successfully.  The mountain was unforgiving, and the temple, though warmer in temperature, was much the same.

An austere environment, there was still room for connections, for relationships to be built, nurtured, and though sexual activity was discouraged from becoming a distraction, it was not forbidden.  Not long into his stay, he found preference in the company of a man several years his senior, and likely a third of a meter his physical superior, who had been initiated before Barsad’s discovery.  His deep-set skin sat in contrast to the constant, blinding white of the snowy mountain top, as well as to the tanned yet much paler tone of Barsad’s skin when against it.  Space between their two bedrolls steadily evaporated within the first year of his training.

Only the best recruits even saw their leader beyond the occasional glimpse between pillars, above in general observation, or whispered glances moving through open corridors.  Barsad was no different, with the exception that he and a handful of other recruits were reassigned to a new trainer—a man Barsad had heard different sorts of whispers about in his time at the temple, but had yet to see.

Bane was physically imposing, a tall, broad, and muscled mass of a man, but there were many at the temple who could boast of strength and size.  It was not the shape of the man that caused the room to buzz with electricity at his entry, but the presence which he pulled around himself, the attention that he demanded merely by standing in silence outside of a group, the way in which all conversation ceased of its own accord when he came near.  His methods differed from Barsad’s previous instructors, his words few and far between, but of a direct sort when used.  Terrible scars covered and altered nearly half of his face, in addition to his back and neck, and though many conflicting rumors swirled through the temple’s corridors, Barsad could not be certain of their origin, nor of the man’s personal history.

According to Kojo, his bedmate, there was a connection with the Demon’s Head, to his daughter, but no one dared to speak of it directly.  It was a mystery that lit up Barsad’s curiosity, and he endeavored to find the truth by getting to know the man better than as an ethereal, fearsome monster as he was presented.  He began requesting extra sparring sessions, purposefully extending his time beyond the dinner bells, leaving the two of them the last to gather rations for the end of the day.  Sharing the evening meal gradually became as routine as the workout of Bane’s instructional beatings. 

Though the man said little, Barsad began to be used as an example for new maneuvers.  He did not need to ask questions at the close of the day, as Bane would assign him exercises that took him well past the bells.  While a bowl for each of them had started their tradition, one evening’s shared dish became the new standard.  Barsad arrived to his cot later and later as weeks went forward.  At first, Kojo waited up for him, lifting the blanket that stretched between their cots for him to slide beneath.  By the end of the third week, the man was asleep before Barsad could return. 

Interactions dwindled, and soon all Barsad came to see of Kojo was his broad back, gently rising and falling as he slept.  Though he hadn’t the energy anymore to _think_ of sneaking contact with him at the end of the day, Barsad still missed the connection, the touch and feel of him, and sharing his day with him.  To that end, he began to leave notes tucked into his bedroll.  Some merely relayed the events of Barsad’s day, the brothers and sisters with which he sparred, the new things he learned. 

_[Ice, today.  Of course I never fell through a crack.  
Well… Perhaps only one boot.]_

Others, longer, in more detail, described what he would be doing to Kojo were they awake at the same hour. 

_[Your shoulders are tempting me, this evening.  I am hungry for your skin.  The taste of you is in my mouth as you sleep, wetting my tongue, the thought of the weight of your cock warming my throat against the chill of night.]_

Very few specifics were spared, among them.

During the few moments they were in the same room, Kojo did not mention the notes, nor had he responded in kind, but each day they were moved, tucked away somewhere or discarded, and either way Barsad found it a pleasant game to play in the last moments of each day.  Still, it was a one-sided game, at least until they were no longer inside the walls of the temple.

_______

Not many who began their training in the mountains left its recesses so soon, but between the promise of Barsad’s group and a purported argument between Bane and the Demon’s Head, at times, exceptions were made.  Out of a necessity for information as well as distance, Barsad, Bane, Kojo, and just over a dozen brothers were sent south, to a much warmer climate, continuing their training while serving a practical end.

Central America was predominantly a far sight different from the snowscaped temple, yet mountains were mountains, and Barsad allowed the cool air to fill his lungs upon every opportunity.  Their assignment left them in a river valley below the Sierra Madres, in a bustling capital.  Compared to the sleepy villages below the snowy peaks they had left behind, the paved streets and modern structures of the town alongside market squares and nearby nature preserves provided enough distraction to keep them unnoticed in an area full of other travelers.  Though the sights were bright and tempting, there was little time to take them in beyond a passing glance.  A warmer climate allowed for new conditioning training, of which Bane took full advantage as an instructor. 

Digital technology had been limited at the temple, a simplified existence, but the change in scenery and setting required each of their group to carry mobile phones in order to keep a safe and consistent contact.  Should an emergency arise, their cell would need to scatter, spread out through the remote countryside, and reconvene at a location determined over communications after the fact.  Out of necessity, the number to Bane’s device was pre-programmed into each of theirs, though most of the lesser initiated did not have access to one another’s.  Of course, Barsad made certain to exchange numbers with Kojo the very minute the phone was in his hand.

In lieu of bedroll notes, lurid texts would do.

And they did.

The climate was warmer, and Barsad’s small traveler’s room had no need for the thick bedroll he had called his own at the temple, and yet it was still colder for being alone.  While he was no stranger to sleeping alone, nor to calling a cubicle of walls a temporary home, it was a strange thing to go back to after the closeness and communal spaces of living with the League.  Each of them were spread out through the city, a room or simply a bed among others in low rent locations.  The point, for the moment, was to remain indistinguishable from the rest of those from neighboring towns and across the nearby border who were doing business in the city, rather than an obvious group.

That did not stop Barsad from finding time and means to make it up to Kojo for his unfortunate neglect.

Most of his time was spent at Bane’s side, as his second.  Though Kojo was the most senior among them, Bane had seemed to find a measure of trust in Barsad’s counsel, and an ease in his company.  Plans for others’ trainings were completed between the two of them, timing schedules for patrols and exercises external to the town gradually fell to Barsad.  Bane controlled his own schedule, and Barsad noted that no one else besides him seemed to be paired directly with Bane, though everyone else alternated their own rotations. 

Three months proceeded as such, with little variation.  Barsad felt he was getting stronger, his reflexes faster than the military had trained into him, and his ability to move unseen a point of pride.  His confidence manifested in stalking Kojo around the city, tracking his movements, a shadow.  Kojo was large, at times quite easily spotted among a crowd, but he had an advantage—his mother had emigrated from the country, not too far from where they had set up.  He spoke the regional dialect, and was familiar enough with the customs to blend in nearly better than Barsad could track.

Nearly.

His comfort zone well established as eyes from above, at a distance, Barsad had needed to stretch his abilities.  Despite their flat rooftops, the buildings varied too little in height, leaving anyone atop their structures in the light open, exposed.  Instead, he followed along the streets, the alleys and spaces between walls that could not earn the word.  One late afternoon, the heated sun spreading shadows that eclipsed the footpaths snaking among buildings, Barsad found his confidence crack as he suddenly lost sight and the trail of his mark.  Retreating his last few steps, he sank back into the cooler air of the shade, his shoulder brushing the rough cement before the hairs at the nape of his neck rose erect.

“ _Hola_ , _hermanito_.”

Barsad’s eyes slid closed, and he let out his breath in a slow sigh before turning to face Kojo.  “Must you humiliate me like this?”

“Humiliate?”  A wide smile spread into Kojo’s cheeks, and Barsad’s back was pressed against the wall before he had time to respond.  Wide hands gripped wiry thighs, lifting Barsad from the ground, at which he readily cinched his legs to either side of Kojo’s waist.  “If you want to be _humiliated_ …”

The corners of Barsad’s mouth threatened to curl into his cheeks beneath his beard, but he denied them the pleasure.  “I see no threat of humiliation, now.”  Insult paid off, and the back of his head smacked smartly against the pebbly texture of the wall behind it and he could faintly taste copper in his mouth before it was harshly covered by full lips.  Inhaling quickly before he lost the opportunity, he slipped his arms around broad shoulders, tapping his tongue forward to earn a deeper kiss.  Heated air was returning without room for his skin to breathe, but he considered it a fair trade.

Being surrounded by Kojo’s frame had the potential to block out the majority of his sensory input, let alone the distraction of his tongue, yet Barsad’s skin pebbled with awareness after only a few steamed moments.  A push separated their mouths, and his head turned to the mouth of the building’s alleyway in time to see an oversized frame step inside its shadow.

“I do not believe this was a part of today’s assignment,” Bane spoke from far too close.  His expression remained flat, likely unreadable to most, though Barsad could see in it a discomfort that was as obvious as it was foreign to his features.  At the cleared throat of confirmation from each of them, and Barsad’s boots hitting the grit of dry earth, Bane appeared satisfied enough that his point had been made.  He left the shadow without another word, disappearing around the corner of the building.

Lips pressed tight, Barsad smacked the back of his hand against Kojo’s upper arm.  “That was foolish.”

Rather than argue his choice of words when they were questioned, Barsad made arrangements to meet at Kojo’s room for the night; at least he could get an evening of pleasure in before the inevitable awkward morning he would have, meeting back up with Bane.


	2. Chapter 2

Nothing was said, no questions asked, no comments, but Barsad’s schedule had been shifted—Kojo’s no longer crossed his own. 

Though the change was frustrating at first, it was the only punishment they received for what was surely inappropriate behavior, and Barsad was quickly too busy to think much about his former assignments.  While he still spent time in the city, his directions entailed reconnaissance directly related to planning efforts with Bane.  They had received new directives at last, a purpose in their new location beyond increasing their skills.  A local warlord’s operations were beginning to pinch on the League’s contacts, and needed to be removed.  More planning was needed, time, but they had all that they needed.

The move to a new city was an inconvenience, but not difficult.  It was larger, their resources increased, and Barsad was able to set up a command center of sorts for Bane.  A larger apartment was rented in the center of the city, with multiple rooms to accommodate supplies and added tech for better communication.  Though Barsad had a room of his own nearby, half the nights were spent curled in a chair near maps and readouts.  Others worked the intel with him, but Bane would take reports directly from no one but Barsad.  Seeming only an extension of the same, Barsad’s ability with a long-range rifle clinched his involvement in the final removal of the warlord himself.

Barsad chose not to question the warmth that flooded through him at the clasped hand over his shoulder following the mission’s completion, the rare, and quiet yet sincere, ‘well done brother’ that followed.

Moving out of the city immediately was not a ready option, destabilization requiring a closer attention in the fallout from their actions, assisting their contacts with restaking their claims, which allowed their group time to settle in again.  Settling in did not mean relaxing, however, and Barsad found himself as busy as he had been when they were actively tailing their mark.  With their own motions, Barsad’s assignments, security on their men, and keeping eyes on the city, he hadn’t heard from Kojo in several days, nearly a week’s time.  His own messages had been sent, delivered, and digitally confirmed in receipt, but had gone without reply.

Too long without a fun exchange, he decided to up the ante while on his patrol, late one night.

Just outside the center of the city, Barsad found his way up to the rooftops where it was quiet, where the ways in which artificial lights fought a losing battle to drown out the stars reminded him of a home he left what felt like a lifetime ago.  Bustling metropolises in larger countries were different, their stars never stood a chance, but in places where both vied for attention, there somehow felt a greater, more familiar, quiet.

It was that quiet that allowed thoughts in Barsad’s mind to multiply into rash ideas.

There was just enough light coming from the city’s glow, from high-set street lamps and access bulbs around the doors behind where he sat.  First making sure he was completely and truly alone, Barsad unfastened his cargo pants, maneuvering his prick out of its confines, the thrill of exposing himself combined with the night’s air and a bit of handling causing it to be little trouble to coax to partial attention.  Balancing the strengthened shaft and his phone, he searched for the just-right angle before snapping a photo.  Attaching it to a text message, he typed out, “Missing you.  Both of us”, before clicking down through his contacts to send it. 

Except, right after the button had been pressed, no touch screen available to match names and fingertips as he chose, a terrible realization met his eyes.  He had not, in fact, sent his explicit missive to “KOJO” as intended, but instead the box next to “LEAD” had been checked, merely one alphabetical setting away—a clear liability that had never _once_ crossed his mind until that very moment.

Having never needed it before, he frantically searched for any sort of [cancel message] button, a setting, anything, but there was nothing.  Nothing, either, could stop the alternatingly flashing dots of an ellipsis on the screen that mocked him as he shut off his phone, cursing at how slowly the screen went black.

Breath gone from his lungs, he shoved his dick back into his pants, wincing at more than the discomfort of thick material against sensitive skin.  His eyes were wide when he turned the phone back on, hoping against logic, but the message was still there, glaring up at him, staring accusingly from his [Sent] folder. 

Sent to “LEAD.”

Sent to _BANE_.

For a moment, just a moment, Barsad wondered if he were having a heart attack.

_______

He sent the message to Kojo, later, as originally intended.  There was nothing he could do about the first message, at least, not digitally, and if he’d already taken the photo, he figured he might as well get a rise—hopefully literally—out of Kojo from it.

After that, he put the entire thing out of his mind.  The photo was deleted, the original message deleted from his phone, though he knew full well that did nothing to the message that Bane’s phone no doubt already contained.

It had been all he could do to get himself down off the rooftop without slipping shaky fingers off of the bricks, there was no way he could let himself meet up with any of his brothers that night.  Avoiding everyone, he dropped himself in his rented bed, purposefully not going straight to check in or spend his time at the main apartment.  Meeting the eyes of anyone, least of all Bane, was not an option.

Also not an option was his absence going unnoticed for long, as one of their team found him the next evening.

“Bane wants to see you,” the older man, Zavid, told him.  “Immediately, no stops.”  Though the message was firm, there was no reading the man’s expression for clues or hints as to how Bane may have given it, or why.

Of course, he _knew_ why.

Swallowing hard, Barsad nodded.  “Yes, of course.  I will be there.”  Left alone after that, he tried to breathe slowly, evenly, to calm himself down.  Pacing the rough-hewn floor did nothing to help, but he was incapable of stopping himself at first.  Eyes closed to force the calm, he tucked the phone into his pocket, where it sat like a burning coal as he walked, hot against his skin through the pants’ inner lining.  Each thump against his leg was a new bright flash through his mind.

The apartment wasn’t far, but the steps felt like kilometers between footfalls.  Entire city blocks stood between each stair on the way to the third floor.

Inside the second room, Bane’s back was to the door, leaning over a high table, his shoulders slightly hunched in a way that achieved the impossible of making them appear larger, broader, and even more imposing.  Papers were spread out over the table, maps of the city and the outlying areas, littered with pins and small markers that represented their resources, their men, and their contacts.  Barsad had been updating the layout with Bane for weeks.  Though the door creaked when Barsad swung it open, those shoulders did not shift, Bane remained silent, not in the least acknowledging the door nor its frame in which Barsad had taken up residence.

“I’m here.”  He forced his voice to produce the words, though for the most part, they cracked and fizzled instead of riding the air between them.  When the attempt failed, he cleared his throat.

Barely a turn of his head, Bane merely gestured to the chair closer to Barsad’s side of the table, before sitting on the opposite side, one hand laid across the table and the other seemingly casually tucked into his pants pocket.  It took several moments for Barsad’s feet to comply with the order his brain delivered.  “Do you know why I wished to see you?”

Barsad swallowed hard, his skin overly warm and his heart too fast, but willing them to calm had little noticeable effect.  “I have a theory.”

“And what, then, is your theory?”  Bane’s words were unhurried, yet his voice demanded answering all the same.

His mouth arid and uncooperative, Barsad flicked his tongue out over his lips quickly, his body a traitorous miscreant beneath the stare he could not evade.  “Because I accidentally sent you a dic—” no, he couldn’t say it, even if the words were nearly all the way out.  “An inappropriate message.”

A notched brow shifted, peaking in a steady arch.  Thick fingers drummed against the table's surface, and the line of Bane's gaze flickered before becoming solid once more, piercing.  "Accidentally?"

"Yes, I—"  It took only that moment for Barsad to re-evaluate, to realize that the flicker he had seen was uncertainty and perhaps even disappointment.  The weight of Bane's frame had gradually shifted back in the chair, away from the table's edge, away from _Barsad_.  "It..." honesty was not optional, "had been meant for someone else."

A barely audible hum accompanied a slow breath from Bane.  "Kojo."  There was no guess involved—though they hadn't let their connection poison their work or their training, Barsad knew it was no secret that he and Kojo often shared a pallet, that they had not been discouraged from finding a quiet place to share warmth and a kiss.  Bane's own witness could attest. 

Attempting to clear his throat failed, and Barsad’s voice became raspier for the unsuccessful effort.  "Yes. It had been meant for Kojo."

"Yet it was sent to me."

"Yes... yes, I know that.  That was the accident."  Barsad was uncertain if he was being asked to repeat himself in order to clarify or to make a punishment seem more likely. 

"And what had you expected in return?"

Barsad shifted in his seat, nearly as uncomfortable on the outside as he was on the inside.  "I—”

Bane's hand left his pocket to lay across his lap, and Barsad felt his own pocket vibrate—a new message.  He cursed the timing, only likely accentuating his guilt and apparently lack of discipline. 

"Are you going to answer it?"

Barsad shook his head.  Of course he wasn’t.  After a moment, however, he was aware he couldn’t be certain to which thing Bane’s question referred.  "...The question or the phone?"

"Both.  In order, please."

_Fuck._

Barsad licked his lips again, and did not meet Bane's eyes, unable to hold the contact under the blaze directed at him.  "I had been hoping for a similar sort of reply.  For him to send something in return, something equal."

"You wished to see his body, as well."

Barsad nodded. 

"And the phone?"

"What?"

"Are you going to answer it, now?"

Barsad felt a bead of sweat roll from the nape of his neck down beneath his collar, continuing between his shoulder blades and straight down his spine. 

"Now?"  Meeting Bane's gaze, he found himself unable to look away, his throat dry and scraping against his tongue, his lips throbbing for the stress.  The icy depths across from him held his own eyes captive, and he felt a tug in his chest, a sensation not new to him, one he had been feeling for some time now and had yet ignored.  He had filed it away under responses to leadership, despite its misfiling being obvious. 

"Now," the rumble confirmed.

Jaw tight, Barsad brought out his cell, fearing for what Kojo had written—or NOT written—in reply, knowing in his gut that Bane would ask for the phone to see it, that this would undoubtedly change their dynamic, and not for the better. 

Flipping the phone open, he poised his finger over the select key, looking down to be sure he didn't just delete whatever it was by accident, earning himself further trouble.  But he stopped upon looking.  The message alert held the sender’s name, but it was _not_ from Kojo. 

Barsad looked up sharply, his breath gone, his own blue eyes wide, confused. 

"Go on."

When had he—oh yes, his pocket.  Had he had a message waiting that whole time?  Had Bane seriously just sent him a text from three feet away in the middle of a conversation?  Noting at least the calm in Bane's posture, Barsad decided to let himself believe he wasn't being killed right this moment for being a tease.

Opening the message, he was met first with four words:

"COME AND FIND ME."

After those, a half-screen scroll below, appeared what he had hoped for when he'd sent the original message, just from a different source.

Standing thickly against camouflaged pants, a strong, braced hand supporting its clear weight, was what Barsad could only assume was Bane's cock.  At attention. 

What he noted next had his heart skipping a beat.  Or two.

The very table at which they sat could be seen in the photo.  The same map open atop it.  The same number of paper stacks.  The same bottle of water in the same position and—had he taken the photo _right before_ calling for Barsad?

His eyes snapped up again, and Bane was watching him more closely than a raptor waiting out its prey, not one iota of amusement detectable.  Barsad was completely unsure if he could take the message at face value. 

"Well?"  His voice ticked up at the last letter, rising sharply in question. 


	3. Chapter 3

"Well... what."  Barsad had no idea what words he should even have.

"Are you?"

Barsad's stomach dropped, and he felt he may as well have been drowning, the surface retreating steadily above his head.   He felt dizzy.  "Am I what?"

The barest hints of muscle movements ghosted across Bane's face.  Barsad's mind made up scenarios in split seconds that he was about to smile, or smirk, that he was teasing, that he was waiting for Barsad to _do_ something, but what that something _was_ , he could not dare to discern.

"Are you going to come and find it?"

_Oh._

Barsad's back slumped against the pad of the chair behind it.  The phone clattered out of his grasp to the floor, and the faint motions playing at the tattered corners of Bane's mouth became grounded, corporeal things.  He was smiling, small though it was, and Barsad was definitely being teased. 

He realized then that he couldn't hear any of their brethren in the outer room, nor through any of the walls of the apartment in which they’d squatted for their assignment.  All was quiet.  They were alone. 

"...Now?" was all he could summon, his blood pounding through his veins behind his ears, and also readily diving south to excite his body.

Bane stood, and then Barsad could see quite clearly, despite thick material, that his photo had indeed been very recent.  "Yes.  Now."

His mind reeling, Barsad ignored its majority, opting not to process the dozens of thoughts flying through this consciousness, the questions and the doubts, the uncertainty and the logical refusals.  Minority won out quickly, and instead, he sank smoothly to the floor in front of the chair, his knees landing him a couple of short steps in front of Bane.  Before he could decide to scoot closer, Bane had stepped forward, a reply, and unfastened his pants, the zipper's descent slow but steady, methodical. 

Barsad stared as the wide cock was once again in front of his face, this time not captured in pixels that deceived its size.  Unable to form words, even to introduce a dialogue of direction or instruction, Barsad gave up and took careful hold of the heavy shaft, heated to his touch, firm and eager. 

His eyes traveled upward, though he found no harshness or impatience in Bane’s expression.  Twitchy fingers bracketed his vision, but remained in their own space.  It was Barsad’s choice—it was an offer, not an order, and he took it.

Gaze unwavering, he leaned his head forward, slipping his lips over warm folds of skin.  Exploration came first, feeling the shape of him with his lips, pressing lightly down the outer curve of his length.  A low rumble approved Barsad’s grasp shifting downward, smoothing back the skin he had just greeted in favor of new meetings. 

Unable to keep eye contact and still work properly, Barsad was no less aware of the hawk-like gaze aimed down at him as he licked over taut skin, torn between amusement and pride when a bead of salty precum quickly rose in response.  His vision was filled with the deep green-grey hue of the material of Bane’s pants, the black hem of his shirt, and a swath of exposed skin at the base of his stomach.  An urge rose inside of him to touch the solid curve below the hem, to move the shirt out of his way, to expose more of Bane’s body to his view, but his hands remained at their attention.  One braced in a grip on the table’s edge, and the other stayed circling the length that was continuing to rise and stiffen beneath his efforts.

Neither of Bane’s hands touched or grasped Barsad in any way, but one moved to the edge of the table beside his own, millimeters apart, his fingers tensing and relaxing as he breathed.  On the other side of Barsad’s peripheral vision, he could see the motion of Bane’s left hand clenching and releasing, both of them restless as usual.  Between them and the hitch he heard in Bane’s breathing, Barsad had enough encouragement without being manhandled in the process. 

He would not have minded the manhandling, in the moment, however.

Working Bane’s length into his mouth in earnest, he drew more rumbles from his broad frame, deep and pleased.  Hollowing his cheeks, taking care to keep as much of the scratchy hair of his beard as possible from rubbing harshly, Barsad bobbed his head in time with his hand’s twisting motions, pausing only to flick his tongue out over the slotted tip, lending to the wetness his mouth readily supplied. 

When the table’s edge shifted, creaking in protest, Barsad knew Bane was close.  Shifting his knees only to allow him to look upwards, he waited until he could see the shine of grey-blue eyes before speeding his motions, tightening his grasp, and teasing with his tongue, the last just enough to send Bane over the edge.  Quickly stopping his throat, Barsad allowed each spurt its space, feeling Bane’s pulse through the veins of his shaft as he finished.  A swallow and time to release his grip was all he had time for.

All at once, in one fluid motion, Bane bodily hefted Barsad straight from his knees up onto the table, one wide hand shifting behind his neck, holding his head in place as the other went for Barsad’s pants. 

Only the briefest of questions flickered through steely eyes before Barsad nodded his consent, reaching to help unfasten the material and allow Bane access to the throbbing hard-on he was all too grateful to release from its prison.  Bane’s hand was rough as it closed around Barsad’s cock, giving his shaft an almost too-firm squeeze, nearly possessive in its motions. 

Almost backwards in order, it was only then that Bane leaned forward to kiss him.  If there had been any hesitation in his mind, none was present in the pressure of his lips, their crisscrossed texture lost in firm contact.  Tight, pumping pulls steady at his cock, Barsad’s mind was empty of all things except for how Bane’s body felt against his own.  He knew only the calloused skin of Bane’s hand, the pressure of Bane’s fingers on his neck, the heat of Bane’s breath flaring out through his nose, and the taste of Bane’s tongue as it slid against his own. 

By the time Barsad felt his muscles tense, felt the familiar build up to release, he had given over his body to the ride.  Orgasm overcame him with his hands gripping tightly over Bane’s thick biceps, his knees raised and shaking.  Neither of their positions shifted for several moments in which they only breathed. 

Plenty of times in Barsad’s life had had him up against a wall, hoisted or doing the hoisting, in a corner, or another transient location for a quick fix of pleasure-seeking, but the sensations skittering through his nerves, through his body and his mind, felt different, this time.  His body felt _right_ in Bane’s grasp, as if that were where it belonged.  A similar feeling tingled in his mind with Kojo, and though the effect seemed stronger, already, with Bane, he knew instinctively that one did not erase the other.

It was not a thing they discussed.  A long while passed between the breath returning to their lungs and clothing completely replaced to proper. 

Bane’s forehead remained leaned against Barsad’s, even as zippers were zipped, even when Barsad slid forward on the table’s top, not caring that the map beneath his bottom was likely to be irreparably wrinkled as a result.  Maneuvering fully off the edge and onto his feet put his frame against Bane, who had not bothered to step backward and allow him room.  Far from awkward, it merely led to Barsad’s head bracketed by large hands, his mouth covered and explored once again.

Staying the entire night was not an option.  There were updates Bane needed to receive, and even a semblance of structure within their group was necessary to keep order.  One brother fooling around with another, preferring the company of another to that of others, was acceptable in its own way, but there were tasks remaining at hand—Bane was still in a leading role, with men under his command, and Barsad knew they could not muddy it, not yet.  He slept in his own bed that night.  His schedule remained much the same, though a different air existed between Bane and him when they were in the same room, when they spoke, and in the briefest moments when they found themselves alone. 

After a week of the same, Bane was given word that their time in the south had come to an end, and they were expected to return to the temple.  While jealousy was not an issue he anticipated, Barsad was uncertain what would become of the position of his bedroll, upon their return to tighter quarters. 

One of their last nights in the soothing climate, Barsad made certain his personal schedule required a night patrol, situating himself once again atop the roofs in the crowded areas of the city.  Sitting at the edge of one such vantage point, his legs crossed beneath him, Barsad took in the sights and smells, committing them to memory.  His peace was interrupted after only a few minutes, however, by the buzzing vibration of his cell phone in his pocket.  Amused, assuming Kojo wished to meet before they left the country, he slipped the device from the material and flipped it open. 

One new message from LEAD.

A softer smile played at his lips, just barely shifting as he clicked to open the message.  Inside was a photo, though quite different from the last, and much darker.  It took a moment to discern, as he squinted, but all at once he realized the background for the photo was the same as the view he currently had.  The foreground, a silhouette seated on a rooftop’s edge, back to the lens and with the city laid out below and in front of him, was Barsad.  Two words followed the photo in text.

_“Found you.”_

Turning with a smirk, he knew exactly how he planned to spend their last night in warm air.


End file.
